


Can you stay?

by stellarose



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Civil War, Gen, Hopeful Ending, POV Natasha Romanov, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarose/pseuds/stellarose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR SPOILERS Third act and post-credit scenes mentioned. </p><p>Natasha visits Steve after the events of Captain America: Civil War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after the events of the Captain America: Civil War. I think of it as a post-post credits scene. There are spoilers. You have been warned. 
> 
> I am also uploading this on FF.net.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, etc. These belong to Marvel.
> 
> Please read, reply, leave kudos and enjoy! Your patronage is very much appreciated.

Natasha went to knock, but as she rested her hand on the door-handle, she found that it was unlocked.

"Steve?" she opened the door and entered his flat. About a year ago he'd decided to cough up and buy himself his own place in Brooklyn, despite spending most of his time being at the Compound. Even Captain America needed his own space from time to time. "I bought some Thai food and some beers. Figured you wouldn't have much in the fridge. You here?" The flat was dark, so she flicked on the lights, juggling the bags.

"Yeah, hiya, Nat," Steve said from the couch. He sounded tired.

Natasha locked the door and went and plonked onto the couch beside Steve, dumping the bags on the floor. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Steve shrugged, "Just, you know. Long way home."

"How was the flight?"

"Eh."

"You look like shit. Don't tell me Captain America was holed up in cattle-class," Natasha said, trying to joke.

"Nah, business," Steve said, staring at the turn-off television screen. "Just a five-hour flight followed by a two-hour layover followed by a fourteen-hour flight back to JFK."

"I could have arranged a private plane for you."

"It's fine." Steve didn't sound fine.

"You could have flown it back yourself."

"I said, it's fine. Business class is fine."

"Actually, you flying trans-Atlantic after farewelling Bucky probably isn't a great idea."

"Natasha…" Steve warned.

"Sorry," Natasha said, "So you've not eaten properly since…?"

"Dunno. Had a bit on the plane, but not much."

"And you've not slept in…?"

"Since Peggy died."

That wasn't the response Natasha had been expecting, and she wasn't sure how to reply. She picked up the books and papers sitting on the coffee table and put the beer and food in their place. Setting the papers down, a leaflet fell out of the notebook. Natasha picked it up. "I have a feeling," she said, "If you give the Smithsonian a call, they will give you a free poster from the exhibition about you."

"What?" Steve asked, looking at her.

Natasha held up the bent leaflet and smirked. Steve's face fell. "What?" Natasha asked, her smile gone.

"It's not mine," Steve said, pulling one of the beers from the six-pack and popping it open.

Natasha opened the notebook to put the leaflet back. "No. This isn't your handwriting."

Steve shook his head slightly as he gulped back the beer.

"Bucky?"

Steve nodded.

Natasha sighed.

Steve swallowed and looked at his beer. "I went back to his flat in Bucharest. It's pretty much destroyed. Not that there was much worth saving, but I figured," he shrugged and took another swig of beer. "That was worth something."

Natasha flicked through the pages.

"Most of it doesn't make any sense," Steve said, still talking to his beer. "Jibberish. Random words. Some of it isn't even in English. Real jibberish."

"It's Russian," Natasha said, finding a page of what she too at first thought was nonsense. "It's like his mind was jumping between the languages as he wrote. He's using part Cyrillic alphabet, part Roman. I can make out some of this, but - "

"But maybe he was right," Steve said, taking another swig. The bottle was almost empty. "Maybe he couldn't trust his own mind."

"We'll figure it out," Natasha said, grabbing the bag of food. "Chicken or beef?"

Steve shrugged, and finished the beer.

"Green chicken curry for you," she said, and handed him one box, "And beef Massaman curry for me. And a plastic fork for you."

"You could have got me chopsticks."

"Last time it took you an hour to eat rice with chopsticks. Just use the fork."

Steve took the fork, opened his curry and gave it a stir to mix the rice with the sauce. "There are lucid moments too."

"Huh?" Natasha said, mouth full of food.

"In the notebook. Paragraphs. In one case, a couple of pages. As though occasionally his mind would slit into place."

"What does he write about?" Natasha asked, grabbing a beer for herself.

Steve stabbed at his curry. "Mostly me," he told it quietly.

"Huh," Natasha said, swallowing a sip of beer.

"Nothing about his Winter Soldier years."

"You know," Natasha said, returning to her curry, unable to meet Steve's eye and not entirely convinced as to why she needed to say it, "The Winter Solider Program made the Red Room look like a picnic with cherries and cake. And the Red Room sucked."

Steve grabbed another beer. They finished the meal in silence. At least cleaning up after themselves was easy, cutlery and containers in the bin, empty beer bottles in the recycling. Steve collapsed back on the couch, and Natasha sat beside him.

"I dunno what to do, Nat," Steve said.

"Right now, I'd recommend a shower and bed."

"Yeah," Steve said, but he didn't move. "Hey Nat, can you…" Steve sighed, "Can you stay the night?"

"Why Captain," Natasha said, using her most seductive tone, "I thought you'd never ask."

"What?"

"I'm joking, Steve. Yeah, I'll stay. This couch is pretty comfy."

"Thanks," Steve said, eyes fixed on the blank TV screen.

Natasha had been expecting the question, and had brought a change of clothes and her toothbrush. Steve shouldn't be alone tonight. "They'll figure something out, you know," she said. "How to help him."

Steve shrugged, "I know."

"You don't sound as though you know."

"I just - I," Steve flailed for words, "We searched for him for two years. Then we found him, and the whole world was against us. He was fighting it, Nat, he was fighting and he was winning."

"But he was set off," Natasha said, "In Berlin. Until we can stop that from happening, counter the programming, well, I hate to say it Steve, but maybe he's right. We can't see inside Bucky's head. The Wakandians are good. T'Challa. They want to help. They'll figure something out."

"I know," Steve said so quietly that Natasha almost missed it.

"When Bucky snapped, and he had me pinned to a table, I don't know if he recognised me. But I want to believe that he did."

"Why?"

"Because if he was in there, even then, I don't know," Natasha said, leaning back into the couch. It was easier not to look at one another while they spoke. "It might mean something. I don't know what, but it might."

"He didn't even recognise me," Steve said.

"It's hard," Natasha said, "I never went through anything like he did, but the way they program you, make you think that everyone is your enemy, they're all out to get you. Find your target. Do you job. Get out. Get back. But Bucky didn't have a target in Berlin. He didn't have a mission. He was activated and he was scared and he was running. If we hadn't tried to stop him, I don't think he would have hurt us. I think he only attacked because we went at him first."

"It still isn't right."

"I didn't say it was."

Steve stared at the TV, his head resting on his hands, and Natasha looked up at the ceiling.

"I think it's time for that shower," Steve said after a few minutes of silence, and plied himself from the couch. Natasha sat up straight.

"Yeah. I'll make us a cuppa."

"Sure," Steve said, and shuffled into the bathroom. A minute later the shower started, and Natasha put the jug on. While she was waiting for it to boil, she picked up Bucky's notebook. Steve was right, most of it was just random words. Plum. Corner. Electric. Swim. Blue. Cliff. One word to a page. A string of words. A sentence. English. Russian. A mix. But as she got further into the book, the words made more sense. The sentences were longer, and the paragraphs more frequent. Bucky was working through the unimaginable, but it was working. Reading it made her hate Hydra more than ever. More than she thought was possible.

The shower stopped and the jug boiled. Natasha closed the notebook. She wanted something to punch. Something to shoot, to fight. Surely Steve must feel the same.

Natasha made the tea, black, there was no milk, and a minute later Steve appeared from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

"Oh, look out, here comes Mr July Nineteen-Forty-Three!" Natasha teased as Steve whipped into the bedroom.

"Shut-up!" he said, but Natasha had seen him smile.

Steve appeared seconds later in a t-shirt and sweatpants. They drank their tea leaning against the bench. "I should probably say thanks for stopping by," Steve said, "And bringing dinner."

"No worries," Natasha said, "Guess I owe you one."

Steve sipped his tea. Black, no sugar. Sugar hadn't been a luxury they could afford when he was young, at least not to use so frivolously as to simply sweeten tea. And milk had been one of the many things likely to disagree with him. He'd tried a few different varieties of tea, but stuck to the classics. There were some new-fangled things that he was never going to get his head around.

They spoke idly about long-haul flights and international airports to fill the silence.

"Well I'm done," Natasha said, tipping the final third of her tea down the sink.

"Why do you do that?" Steve asked.

"What?"

"Not finish your tea?"

Natasha shrugged. "It goes cold."

"It's still hot."

"Yeah, well, not hot enough."

"Huh," Steve said, and gulped down the last of his tea in one throat-burning mouthful. He placed his mug in the sink.

"Want me to tuck you in?" Natasha asked, "Read you a bedtime story?"

"No, I do not," Steve said.

"Sure you do," Natasha said, "Everyone likes being read a bedtime story."

"Hang on," Steve said, "I have to pee."

A couple of minutes later, Natasha was tucking Steve into bed, with a lot of patronising cooing from her, and a lot of eye rolling and mockery from Steve.

"Ok, what books have we got," Natasha said, sitting on the bed beside him.

Steve folded his arms over the covers. "Not a huge choice."

" _Lonely Planet New York_."

"Hey, it's handy."

"I'm not judging," Natasha said, picking up the next book. " _Thing Explainer_."

"Sam gave me that. Really handy."

"I believe you. And this absolute brick," she said, picking up the final book.

"It's only 800 pages."

" _Alexander Hamilton_."

"Yeah," Steve said, and looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah, I - I kinda relate."

"Isn't he the dude on the money?"

"Yep," Steve said, "Ten dollar bill."

"I think I have his head in my wallet."

"We just about match up on our illnesses. I mean, I get why he fought so hard. I never had malaria, or yellow fever, but I'll play my scarlet fever and asthma cards."

"Are you trying to one-up illnesses with a historical guy?"

"I am a historical guy."

"Not powdered-hair historical."

"And his best friend died," Steve said, his smile fading, "When he shouldn't have, in the final days of the war."

Natasha put the book back. "You should to read more fiction."

"Why?" Steve asked. Natasha didn't have a response. Steve sighed.

"How about I just tell you a story instead," Natasha said, turning off the bedside lamp. The room went dark, save for the glow from the streetlights outside coming in under the curtains. She crawled over Steve and lay down beside him on top of the covers.

"Shoes off the bed."

"Seriously?" Natasha asked, put lifted up her feet to pull off her shoes. She threw them out into the hallway. Even in the semi-darkness she could see Steve look at her disapprovingly. "How about a Peggy story, if you're not into fiction."

"A what?"

"Peggy story. I've read all the SHIELD files." And committed them to memory, Natasha didn't add out loud.

"Is it a good one?"

"They're all good," Natasha said,

"I've probably heard it," Steve said, rolling onto his eyes.

"Not my version," Natasha said, "Right, well close your eyes. So, this one time…"

Steve was asleep before Natasha was even half-way through.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, look, here comes Sleeping Beauty just in time for eggs," Natasha said, flipping the eggs out of the pan and onto the toast.

Steve rubbed his hand through his hair. "Where did the food come from?" he yawned.

"I popped out and got it," Natasha said, pushing a plate towards him. "You have quite literally no food around here, other than a few condiments and a couple of tins of four-bean mix. Had to get us something for breakfast."

Steve sat down on the stool at the bench. The smell of fried eggs had woken him, but his body felt as though he'd hardly slept at all.

"Tea?" Natasha asked.

"Thanks," Steve said, liberally applying salt and pepper and a healthy squeeze of tomato ketchup to his eggs and toast.

Natasha picked up the jug and poured Steve a cup, before joining him at the bench.

"How was the couch?" Steve asked.

"Fine," Natasha said, "It's certainly one of the better couches I've slept on."

"I should've got somewhere with a spare room."

"Don't worry about it. It's Brooklyn, and you're not that rich."

Steve gave her a small smile. "What time is it?" he asked, noticing the flashing clock on the microwave.

Natasha pulled her phone out of her pocket. "Just after eight. You slept a good ten hours."

"I could go ten more," Steve said, picking up his toast.

"I wasn't going to say it, but since you brought it up, you still look like shit."

"Gee, thanks, Nat," Steve said, taking a bite.

"You sleep well?" Natasha asked.

Steve shrugged. "Well enough."

"What about - "

"Nat, eat first, interrogation later?" Steve asked.

"Sorry, yeah, eat up."

After breakfast, Natasha washed the dishes while Steve dried and put them away, and reset the clock on the microwave.

"I don't think the power went out last night," Natasha said.

"Nah," Steve said, "It was like that when I got back here yesterday. Just couldn't be bothered changing it."

"Where's you phone? It probably needs a charge. I unpacked your bag, by the way. Just threw everything in the washing basket. How many white t-shirts do you own?"

"Ta," Steve said, ignoring the jibe and sitting down on the couch. "Phone was in the pocket of the pants I was wearing yesterday."

"The ones still on the bathroom floor?"

"That'd be them. Why?"

"Group text from Scott."

"What's he saying?" Steve asked.

"Something about 'is there Trip Advisor for prisons?' If so, food in California is better, but blue is more his colour."

"You're kidding?"

"How does Sam know him?"

"I've never really asked."

"Huh. Well, he's sure a good add to the team."

"Yeah," Steve sighed heavily, thinking about other team mates. "Nat, I - I don't know what to do. I hate the feeling. The - helplessness, I guess. I've got nothing. I just don't know what to do."

Natasha sat down beside him. "That's okay, you know. We're all a bit out of ideas."

Steve adjusted how he was sitting. "I watched  _Lord of the Rings_  over Christmas, did I tell you that?"

"Nope."

"Watched it twice, first time with subtitles. I'm real glad Clint suggested that, otherwise I would of had no idea what was going on. Then watched it again, just because."

"All of it?"

"Yep."

Natasha glimpsed the box-set lying on the shelf below the television. "Are they the - "

"Extended editions. Clint gave them to me for Christmas. Said if I was going to commit, I might as well go all the way. He was right."

"Ha. He did the same to me. So you enjoyed them?"

"Yeah," Steve said, staring at the box, "I think so."

"Think so? You watched them twice, so…"

"Frodo wouldn't have got very far without Sam," Steve said softly, his eyes suddenly burning with tears.

"Oh," Natasha said.

"I don't fit in, Nat," Steve said, wishing the tears would go away. "Never have. Certainly not pre-serum. Not post-serum. Not in the army. Definitely not in the twenty-first century. Not even in the Avengers. Not really."

"But?" Natasha asked, noticing the upwards inflection in Steve's tone when he stopped.

Steve glanced quickly at Natasha, then leant back against the couch, looking at the ceiling. "I could go to the end of the galaxy in a tin can with Bucky and it would feel like home," his voice cracking as he ended.

"Hey," Natasha said, and took Steve's hand. He leant into her.

"I don't fit in, Nat. I just don't. But for a couple of days there, just for a bit, I thought… ah, it doesn't matter now. I thought wrong."

"No," Natasha said, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. "You didn't."

"I should have known I'd only lose him again," Steve wiped his eyes with his spare hand.

"Steve…"

"That's why I can't sleep. Because I can never get off that damned train. The eagles never come. What's the point of being Captain America and saving the world, if every single time I lose Bucky?"

"I - "

"It doesn't matter," Steve said, standing abruptly. "I - I'll go clean my teeth. Have a shave. I won't be long." He shut the bathroom door with more force than he meant.

Natasha sighed. They learnt a lot of things in the Red Room, but they sure as hell didn't learn to deal with this. Steve needed someone else to talk to, someone who knew the right things to say. Sam, maybe. Bucky's notebook still sat on the coffee table. Natasha picked it up and opened it on a random page.

_Steve was on the train with me. It was cold. I held the shield._

The were no more words on that page, and the ones on the page opposite looked to be a shopping list, with the strange mix of Cyrillic and Roman letters. Natasha closed the book and wrapped her arms around it and herself.

Back in the day, Steve and Bucky's day, people didn't say things like 'I'm not coping' unless their ailment was physical, either serious injury or illness. So for Bucky to say that he didn't trust his own mind, and he didn't trust it so much that he would rather be in cryo-stasis possibly forever, rather than attempt rehabilitation, then he must be a bigger mess inside than any of them could imagine. But something inside of Natasha told her that they would find a solution, that they would be able to help Bucky, to undo some of the damage that all those years as a Hydra slave had seen inflicted upon him. She needed them to, and she couldn't quite explain why.

The bathroom door clicked open and Steve emerged, looking fresher and more alert. "I'll be…" he began gesturing towards his bedroom.

"Yeah, sure, take your time," Natasha said, though this was his flat, and she wasn't sure what they were waiting for.

Steve gave a sharp, military nod, and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door.

Bucky remembered everything. Which meant he remembered her. She remembered him too, of course. Once she would have killed him. Put him out of his misery. Permanently stop the threat. But she didn't believe in that anymore. There had to be a way to save him. She'd made it out, so he could too. They just needed something powerful enough to combat seventy-years of Hydra brain-washing.

"Oh," Natasha said out loud, her eyes wide. She looked to Steve's bedroom, but the door stayed shut. Oh, it would be risky, but between the two of them, it might just work. Bucky didn't need a some _thing_ , he needed a some _one._ Someone who could bend reality. Change it. Manipulate it. And a magic, intergalactic, mind-altering rock would probably assist as well if they could figure out how to use it.

Steve's door opened, and he stepped out in his compression pants and a t-shirt. "You ready? I just gotta grab my trainers. I've got a couple bills in my pocket. Figure we can grab a second breakfast afterwards."

"What?" Natasha asked, her mind running through all the possible scenarios.

"Run?" Steve said, grabbing his trainers and pulling them on.

Natasha looked down, having forgotten that her change of clothes had been her compression tights and a sweat-shirt. "How far?" she asked, slipping the notebook back onto the coffee table as Steve tied his shoelaces.

"Three hours?"

"My pace or yours?"

Steve chuckled, "Half and half?"

"Well, I'm running at my pace the whole time."

"Okay."

"And anywhere specific for brunch?"

"There's a pancake place on Smith Street I want to check out. Also I'm not convinced that 'brunch' is a real word."

"Did you find this place in your Lonely Planet book?" Natasha asked, standing up and stretching her quads.

"Nope," Steve said, shoelaces done. "My good friend Google." He turned and looked at her, and Natasha thought that just for a moment, perhaps he'd come to the same realisation that she had. It was amazing the things you could come up with cleaning your teeth. So how to get everyone on board? It would be risky, but it was a risk Natasha was willing to take. Wanda was a clever kid, and Bucky was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for. He was still alive, after all.

"Are you thinking…?"

"Nat," Steve said, "Right now, I just need to run."

"Yeah," Natasha said. "Run it out. Talk over brunch."

"Let's go."


End file.
